Читать книгу The Saint-Florentin Murders: Nicolas Le Floch Investigation #5 - Jean-Francois Parot - Страница 12

Nicolas was surreptitiously looking at his son’s face. He was the spitting image of how he himself had been when he was young, with that dashing air his grandfather, the Marquis de Ranreuil, had had whenever he rose to his full height and looked his interlocutor in the eye. As for La Satin, her presence was felt in the gentleness diffused through his fine, if not entirely formed features. The boy’s noble but casual bearing showed none of the awkwardness common to his age. He was talking to Monsieur de Noblecourt, and his conversation was full of Greek and Latin quotations: from time to time, with a smile, the former procurator would correct his mistakes and solecisms. The presentation dinner for Louis Le Floch at Noblecourt’s house in Rue Montmartre was at its height. Nicolas was happy and relieved to feel the warmth emanating from his friends, Semacgus, Bourdeau and La Borde. He himself did not take part in the discussion, wanting Louis, who in fact seemed quite at ease, to find his place here naturally. The role of father, which filled him with both joy and anguish, was still new to him, and he had to learn it step by step.

The year was ending better than it had begun. The rumours circulating about the plots and criminal investigations that had followed the death of his mistress, Madame de Lastérieux, were gradually dying down. He still carried his grief for the late King in his heart, muted but painful. This troubled period of his life had had one fortunate consequence: he had discovered the existence of a child born of his liaison with La Satin fifteen years earlier. La Paulet, alerted by a first encounter and the impression of a conspicuous resemblance, had decided to intervene. Leaving her house in Auteuil, where she led a comfortably devout life, she had come running to see Monsieur de Noblecourt to plead La Satin’s case and the importance of giving Louis a father he had never known. The former procurator had taken the matter very seriously and had agreed to intercede and advise both parents.

There had been misgivings, however, on both sides. La Satin feared Nicolas’s reaction, recalling that he had once questioned her as to the father of her child and had declared himself ready, if need be, to assume responsibility. Being a sensible woman, well aware of the demeaning nature of her situation, she dreaded the consequences that might ensue, for both father and son, of recognising Nicolas’s paternity and thus bringing this dubious lineage out into the open. At the same time, Nicolas, who still felt a great deal of tenderness for a woman he had known when he first arrived in Paris, was fearful of hurting the new mistress of the Dauphin Couronné by taking steps to remove their child from a pernicious, corrupting environment. Nor had he any desire to loosen the natural ties binding a son to his mother.

It was left to Monsieur de Noblecourt to resolve this thorny issue. He took up his pen and, as if setting out the points for a closing statement in court, undertook to bring the interests and feelings in question, delicate as they were, into alignment. La Satin was to readopt her birth name of Antoinette Godelet and abandon her present occupation. With Nicolas’s help, she would buy a shop selling fashion and toilet articles in Rue du Bac from a couple who wished to retire. The hardest part was to convince La Paulet, who, seeing her carefully laid plans for the succession of the brothel collapse, raged and cursed like a fishwife in a manner with which Nicolas had been familiar in the past. Monsieur de Noblecourt waited for the storm to pass and, making full use of his mollifying influence on the good lady, dispensed so many compliments and displayed such a benevolent ear that his intervention worked wonders, and she gradually calmed down. The unexpected arrival of La Présidente, whose English adventure had ended in disaster,1 made it possible to overcome the last objections. La Satin’s friend jumped for joy at the idea of resuming her duties at the Dauphin Couronné, but this time as mistress and manager. Grudgingly, La Paulet agreed to everything. Indeed, she went even further. Her establishment had prospered, acquiring an elegant tone that belied its reputation. In order to show her gratitude to La Satin, she decided to complement her move to Rue du Bac by buying for her the little mezzanine apartment attached to it.

For his part, Nicolas recognised his son before a notary – the boy immediately took his name – and used his influence to make sure that anything relating to La Satin’s former activities went missing from the police archives. All that remained was to inform Louis of these events which would have such consequences for his future: a delicate operation which might well distress the young man. Monsieur de Noblecourt offered to take care of it, but Nicolas wanted to begin his career as a father by being completely open and telling the whole truth. In any case, he had nothing with which to reproach himself, having been unaware of his son’s existence until quite recently. But the question remained as to what the young man would think of these decisions about which he had not been consulted.

Nicolas thought about how he himself had been at that age. Whenever he talked to Louis, it was indeed that distant image of himself that he strove to convince. Their first encounter reassured him. Under the trees in the garden of La Paulet’s house in Auteuil, he told the boy his life story, omitting nothing, and taking care not to offend the love the child bore his mother. Louis listened seriously and naturally, and immediately launched into a long series of questions. Their encounters continued through the summer, mostly at Dr Semacgus’s house in Vaugirard, and before long their relationship blossomed into affection. Having gained some idea of his son’s knowledge, Nicolas decided to have him admitted to the College of the Oratorians at Juilly: he regretted that his Jesuit masters had been expelled from the kingdom, but the education, both classical and modern, provided at the college corresponded to the ideas the Marquis de Ranreuil had drummed into Nicolas throughout his adolescence at Guérande, with modern literature and foreign languages being particularly prominent. Louis would come back and spend his holidays in Paris, sharing them equally between Rue Montmartre and Rue du Bac.

‘When will I see the King, Father?’

Nicolas gave a start, and again became conscious of his surroundings. The meal was starting. Marion and Catherine had just brought in a piping hot calf’s-kidney omelette.

‘I’ll take you to Versailles one Sunday,’ he replied. ‘We’ll attend Mass and you’ll be able to observe His Majesty at your leisure, and then at even closer quarters in the great gallery.’

Louis smiled. His expression brought a pang to Nicolas’s heart: for a moment, he had been reminded of his half-sister Isabelle.

‘How is Monsieur Lenoir?’ La Borde asked.

‘From what I see, the Lieutenant General is doing well.’

Those present noticed the bitterness of his reply.

‘If truth be told,’ La Borde resumed, ‘he’s a man extremely well disposed to everything concerning opera.’

‘I fear,’ Semacgus said ironically, ‘that our friend’s desire to be noticed has influenced his support for the successor of the late lamented Sartine.’

Nicolas shook his head.

‘It’s one of those phrases,’ Noblecourt said, ‘that suggests too much or too little. I find it a somewhat laconic remark to make about someone in such an important position. Sartine actually increased the powers of the office. What will this man do with them?’

‘Oh,’ said Bourdeau, ‘he’s become as important as a minister, even though he doesn’t have the title of minister. You know how much influence he has behind the scenes. He strikes down or he saves. He spreads darkness or light. His authority is as tactful as it is extensive. He elevates and humiliates as he pleases.’

Nicolas shook his head. ‘The last one liked wigs, this one richly bound books.’

‘Which suggests,’ said Louis timidly, ‘that neither one of them can entirely cover up his own emptiness!’

They all applauded. Nicolas smiled.

‘As our late King used to say,’ observed La Borde, ‘like father like son.’

‘He gets it from his grandfather,’ said Nicolas. ‘The marquis was never at a loss for a witty remark.’

‘Gentlemen,’ resumed La Borde, ‘allow me to abandon you to the aromas of this delicious omelette. I salute in passing the tenderness of these kidneys. In honour of young Louis, I lent a hand myself, as I used to at Trianon. Catherine and I are about to put the finishing touches to my surprise. Semacgus, prepare our host to resist temptation! Louis, come with me, I need a kitchen boy.’

The boy stood up, already tall for his age. How many things there were to teach him! thought Nicolas. Riding, hunting, fencing … He was a Ranreuil, after all. He resumed his reflections. Naturally, the new Lieutenant General of Police had received him quite promptly. Following Sartine’s counsel, he had asked for an audience as early as possible. He had found Lenoir standing behind the desk where, so often, his predecessor had played with his wigs. The man was tall, with a full figure and a distinct paunch. He had a strong nose above a mouth with a fleshy lower lip which, when it moved to express dismissal or disdain, drew the eye to his double chin. His own eyes were lively and penetrating, with a hint of arrogance, a marked scepticism, and an undisguised self-satisfaction. A powdered wig with ringlets added to the magnificence of cambric bands falling in a dazzling stream over an unadorned silk gown. The interview, cut short by the arrival of a visitor, could hardly have been classed as a genuine meeting of minds.

‘Commissioner,’ Lenoir had said, ‘my predecessor recommended you. I myself, Monsieur, had the opportunity to assess the skill and expertise with which you handled a delicate case. On the other hand, experience has taught me that personal methods, however useful and effective they may be, tend to get out of control and become a burden to those in authority. You cannot play with me the same role you played with Monsieur de Sartine. I intend to revise the rules and bring a new order to our methods, one more in keeping with my own conceptions.’

‘I am at the King’s service, Monseigneur.’

‘He appreciates you, Monsieur,’ retorted Lenoir, somewhat ill-temperedly. ‘We know he appreciates you. But the rules must be the same for everyone. Some older commissioners might be offended …’

They probably hadn’t held back, thought Nicolas.

‘… that one of their younger colleagues should get all the attention and be allowed such independence. Can we entrust you with a district? That would hardly be appropriate. You have treated your colleagues very badly—’

‘Monseigneur!’

‘I know what I’m saying, don’t interrupt me. Many complaints and grievances have reached my ear. The sensible thing, Monsieur, would be to take things easy, relax, go hunting, and wait for more auspicious times to return. A position as police commissioner at the Châtelet can be sold at a good price and with excellent interest. There is no shortage of candidates, as you can imagine. I have the honour to bid you good day, Commissioner.’

Nicolas made no effort to counter this fall from favour. His upright nature balked at doing so, and he was unable to feign submission. Absorbed as he was by his discovery of Louis, he was more worried about what would happen to his deputy, Bourdeau, who had been dragged into the same storm and who, with children still young enough to require support, now found himself reduced to his basic allowance without the profitable extras to which his position usually gave rise. Nicolas took steps to have substantial sums passed on to his friend, justifying them, in order not to offend the man, as payments of long-forgotten debts, expenses incurred during past missions. As far as his own condition was concerned, he approached it with an almost religious fatalism: his future would be what it would be. The only people in whom he confided unreservedly were Monsieur de Noblecourt and La Borde.

The former approved of his determination to rise above the temporary vicissitudes that marked any career devoted to the King’s service. Time was a great master which arranged things well, and, in these circumstances, the only obligation that imposed itself upon an honest man was to keep up appearances. In this way, he would show that he regarded as of little account what most men would have taken for a catastrophe. Monsieur de Noblecourt, with his experience of the century and of the ways of men, was convinced that Lenoir would overcome his initial prejudices. His first reaction had been perfectly understandable, the action of someone who wished to impress others and himself. Nicolas should not forget that Lenoir was the protégé and friend of Monsieur de Sartine, who had intrigued to have him appointed in his place, hoping thereby to keep some control over this important cog in the machinery of State, this privileged instrument of influence with the monarch. The talk that had reached Monsieur de Noblecourt’s ears about the new Lieutenant General of Police painted quite a different picture. He was said to be clear-headed, a good conversationalist, a man of lively perception and exquisite judgement. He had studied long and hard, but this had not, it was said, in any way blunted the graces and ornaments of an amiable wit. He was, in addition, a discriminating lover of the arts and letters. In short, the most sensible thing, for the moment, was to wait, for it sometimes happens that our salvation comes from the very same sources from which we expect our ruin.

Monsieur de La Borde’s argument, although different, pointed in the same direction. He had, immediately after the King’s death, decided to forget a past that had been happy but was now over and done with. They had to accept it: they were both ‘old Court’, and would stay that way for a long time, if not for ever. He himself had resumed a number of activities which his duties to the monarch had caused him to neglect. Swearing Nicolas to secrecy, he confessed that the late King had promised to compensate him for a financial sacrifice to which he had once consented in order to enter his service. He also revealed, much to Nicolas’s surprise, that he had decided to turn over a new leaf after a life of superficiality and dissipation. He had recently married Adélaïde-Suzanne de Vismes, nineteen years his junior. The ceremony had originally been set for 1 July, but, because of the public mourning, had been postponed to September and celebrated discreetly. His wife, sorely tried by these events and the dashing of their expectations, had fallen into a terrible state of languor, inflammation and weeping. Still in the mood for confession, and no doubt inspired by Nicolas’s recent fatherhood, La Borde revealed to him that he himself had legitimised, four years earlier, a daughter born of his liaison with La Guimard, the famous actress. Saying all this seemed to relieve him of a burden and, putting his own troubles aside for the moment, he returned to those of his friend.2

He tried fervently to make Nicolas forget his gloom. After all, he had been granted leisure. By God, he should make use of it and devote himself to his son! A man who had studied the world knew when to wait and when to take advantage of opportunities. He had to adapt his means and make his thoughts serve his loyalties. His counsel could be summed up in the Italian phrase Volto sciolto e pensieri stretti: Open face and secret thoughts. Dissimulation and secrecy were to be cultivated: the commissioner should stand aside for a while in favour of the Marquis de Ranreuil. He should use the disadvantages of an apparent fall from favour, don them like a suit of armour in a society where the slightest weakness was noticed and provided ammunition to those who wished to mock or crush you. He should be seen in all the right places and make sure that the King, who already knew him, noted his regular attendance and expertise on hunts and at shooting parties, to which he had free access thanks to the favour of Louis XV. That would give others nothing to seize on as evidence that Monsieur Lenoir was keeping him on the sidelines. Nothing would be gained by arguing. La Borde noted sadly that times had indeed changed: a witty remark by Monsieur de Maurepas was considered of greater import in royal circles than protecting a good servant.

Nicolas was inspired by his friends’ good counsel. He judged that salvation lay in the deliberate ambiguity of his conduct, which would lead commentary in different directions and, in the long run, drain it of all meaning. Despite the rumours, the cold hearts and false minds of the city and the Court would struggle in vain to spread gossip about him. Everyone might well have his own opinion about the case of ‘young Ranneuil’, but it wouldn’t matter. All that remained to complete the picture were a few touches intended for the chroniclers, who were always on the lookout for things that might convince the less credulous: a gratifying flirtation with an indiscreet lady, a touch of condescension in his courtesy, and, most important of all, being noticed by the King. He had the opportunity to note, with some amusement, how he excelled in the career of courtier. In August, when the Court was at Compiègne, he had several times found himself in at the kill just after the King, and had benefited from his master’s simple good humour. Subsequently, they had conversed merrily about the qualities of the animal or the episodes of the hunt. At shooting, he deliberately missed, much to the satisfaction of Louis XVI, who, as a mark of his esteem, resolved to present him with the rifles which the late King had lent to Nicolas on one of his last excursions, just before his illness.

All this caused much comment at Court, his supposedly fallen star suddenly shone again as brightly as ever, and the very people who, a few days earlier, had looked at him without seeing him now came running to compliment him. He had no doubt that news of his renewed success would reach the ears of Monsieur Lenoir, who was informed by his spies of the smallest details of life at Court. When all was said and done, he realised, the last few months had passed quickly, with a great deal of agitation and a flood of impressions and feelings. A great cry drew him from his reflections.

‘Gigot farci à la royale accompanied by mushroom rissoles!’ roared La Borde, who was carrying a silver tray from which fragrant wreaths of steam were rising.

‘Doesn’t he look like the herald of arms?’ exclaimed Noblecourt, his eyes already gleaming greedily. ‘All he needs is the tabard.’3

‘What do you think this is, then?’ asked La Borde, indicating the white apron with which he was draped.

Now it was Louis’s turn to appear, his face red from the heat of the ovens, carrying a porcelain dish filled with a pyramid of rissoles arranged on a cloth.

Nicolas decided to join in the mounting gaiety. ‘And what are we going to drink with all that?’

Bourdeau produced two bottles from under the table. ‘A plum-coloured Saint Nicolas de Bourgueil!’

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ said Noblecourt, ‘while Poitevin carves, I propose that Monsieur de La Borde gives us the usual descriptive and appetite-whetting speech.’

‘May I enquire, Monsieur,’ said Louis, ‘as to the reason for this custom?’

‘Young man, ever since your father brought joy back to this house, a joy made all the greater today by your presence among us, it has been a tradition which I would not dream of not respecting on this feast day. The delicious dishes concocted under this roof should be tasted not only by the palate but also by the ear.’

And the eyes!’ exclaimed Semacgus. ‘In any case, that is the one sense I allow myself to indulge.’

‘Well,’ retorted Noblecourt, ‘I’m going to disobey my doctor this evening. I shall satisfy those three senses to the full!’

‘Gentlemen,’ said La Borde, ‘may I first point out to you that I had the honour to make this dish for the late King, and that Madame de Pompadour was very fond of it in spite of a weak stomach?’

‘The good lady was quite lenient,’ said Semacgus.

‘On the contrary, she asked for more.’

‘Gentlemen, stop this foolery,’ begged Noblecourt. ‘It’s going to get cold.’

‘Imagine a fine leg of lamb,’ continued La Borde emphatically, ‘kept cool for several days until it’s nicely tender. First you must break the knuckle to get inside and take out the meat while keeping the outside intact. To do this, I called on the skills of a master!’

‘A meat roaster from Rue Saint-Honoré?’ Nicolas asked.

‘Not at all. A naval surgeon, adept at cutting and digging.’

‘It’s true,’ said Semacgus, closing his eyes with a show of solemnity. ‘My knives proved very useful.’

‘Good heavens!’ cried Nicolas. ‘Do you mean to say you used the instruments that are normally for—’

‘I’d like to have you believe it, just to take away your appetite!’

‘I’ll never finish if you keep interrupting me,’ moaned La Borde. ‘The meat that’s been taken out has to be chopped up very small with a little bacon, marrow, fine calf’s-kidney fat, mushrooms, eggs, salt, pepper and spices. Keep kneading it all, making sure that each part absorbs the taste and seasoning of the others. Then fill the skin with it so that the leg reappears in its natural form and tie it all the way round with string, in order to maintain its consistency. Let it get nicely golden, then cook it in a pot with a good thick stock and a thin piece of beef, half roasted, which will fill it with its juices and give it more taste. Add onions stuck with cloves and herbs. A good hour later, turn it in the pot until it’s baked. Check it with your fingertips, to make sure the flesh is soft. As the sauce is now reduced, add some sweetbread, and, once you’ve carved the leg, pour this succulence over it.’

Cheers punctuated Monsieur de La Borde’s recitation. Everyone proceeded to savour a dish that required a spoon rather than a knife and fork. Nicolas watched his son out of the corner of his eye, happy to see that he was eating with that nimble elegance which, once again, recalled not only the bearing of the Marquis de Ranreuil, but also his mother’s innate grace.

‘Now there’s a dish,’ said Noblecourt, ‘that’s well suited to my old teeth.’

‘The crustiness of the wrapping and the softness of the filling go together perfectly,’ said Semacgus. ‘And how well this purple beverage matches the lamb!’

‘Doesn’t it?’ said Bourdeau, delighted. ‘I find that the mushrooms in this fine mixture retain their softness and all the flavours of the forest.’

Noblecourt turned to Louis. ‘This is a dinner you’ll remember when you’re at school, one with which you’ll be able to enliven your dreams.’

‘I shall think of it with gratitude, Monsieur,’ the boy replied, ‘when I’m eating hard-boiled meat and worm-eaten herring. It will strengthen my resolve.’

They all laughed. Catherine placed a dish of crystallised quince fritters sprinkled with sugar on the table. Noblecourt smiled and made a sign to Poitevin, who went out and immediately returned with two small packages.

‘Young man,’ said the former procurator, opening the more voluminous of the two, ‘I was a schoolboy once, and had to suffer, like you, both harsh discipline and hunger. My mother took pity on me and made sure I had a supply of quince jelly, which I sucked every evening to calm my hunger pangs.’

He took from the packet a series of small round, flat deal boxes.

‘These objects, which are called friponnes, contain quince jelly with a little added white wine. Not only will they assuage your hunger, but they are an excellent remedy for stomach aches. They will also help to combat whatever harmful effects the school food has on your health. You will just have to conceal them carefully, as theft is all too common in schools. You have enough here to last you until Christmas.’

The conversation then turned to more general matters.

‘Are they still wearing mourning for our king at Versailles?’ La Borde asked with that feigned indifference that ill concealed his sadness at being separated from the centre of the world.

‘The recommended attire,’ said Nicolas, ‘is a cloth or silk coat, depending on the weather, black silk stockings, swords and silver buckles, with a single diamond ring. Last but not least, braided cuffs on the shirt. That’s all until 1 November; after that everything will be simpler as Christmas approaches.’

‘For someone who is out of favour at Court,’ observed La Borde, ‘you seem to be well informed!’

‘I still have my place there, having followed my friends’ counsel.’

‘I am assured,’ said Noblecourt, ‘that the King has ordered Monsieur de Maurepas to put right certain abuses. Have we seen the first fruits yet?’

‘A hundred and thirty horses and thirty-five grooms have already been removed from the royal hunt.’

‘Can you imagine?’ said Bourdeau, sardonically. ‘Horses are done away with, while at the same time the King yields to the Queen’s whims by increasing her already well-stocked household. Why did she need a grand chaplain on top of everything else, not to mention an official to heat the sealing wax?’

‘Clearly, Bourdeau is equally well informed of matters at Court,’ said Semacgus.

‘Not at all!’ the inspector replied. ‘But I keep a close eye on how the people’s money is dissipated.’

‘It’s been quite a while,’ said Semacgus, ‘since we last heard your caustic criticisms.’

‘In my opinion,’ said Bourdeau, becoming heated, ‘the creation of Court positions is putting a strain on a budget that’s already increased thanks to the military operations on the island of Corsica. Just imagine, the natives don’t know how lucky they are to be French! Rebels and bandits are ravaging the countryside and extorting money by menaces.’

‘As a matter of fact,’ said La Borde, ‘that’s becoming a bigger problem. Our commander in the field, Monsieur de Marbeuf, has just pacified Niolo. Rebels have been put on the wheel outside churches in the presence of the populace. Six hundred rifles were found in a tomb at the monastery, and there was a terrible reprisal: two monks were hanged on the spot. It’s to be expected that this business will continue. God knows when we shall see its end!’

‘Enough of sad matters,’ said Noblecourt. ‘La Borde, I have no doubt you attended the first performance of Monsieur Gluck’s Orpheus and Eurydice. Tell us what you thought. Such things hold no secrets for you.’

‘In truth,’ replied La Borde, impervious to the hint of irony in the procurator’s tone, ‘the audience were enraptured by that tragic opera, and its success surpassed that of Iphigenia in Aulis last April.’

‘That indeed is what I observed for myself,’ said Noblecourt, savouring the surprised reaction of his friends, who all knew that the former procurator almost never left his house. ‘Oh yes! In the absence of Nicolas, away chasing both lovely ladies and the beasts of the field, I called for my horse and carriage. Poitevin donned his newest livery, and off we set!’

He looked at Nicolas out of the corner of his eye.

‘On my arrival at the Opéra, Monsieur Balbastre,4 who was all smiles, helped me to my seat. He was very friendly … if a trifle unctuous.’

Nicolas shrugged.

‘Anyway, I attended the performance and can confirm its success. But what kind of success? And with whom? Apart from you, who are able to judge, even though in this case I do not share your taste. What did I see? An auditorium three-quarters full of old would-be gallants and young fops, the kind who spend their time making paper cut-outs in fashionable salons. This pack goes wild every time something new appears, provided it stands out more or less from the ruck. As for what I heard, it was nothing but a stew of very diverse ingredients. A disastrous mixture of sounds and impressions that bombards and paralyses the understanding to cover the lack of fecundity of an author who ought to prostrate himself before Saint Greluchon.5 Oh yes, I’d prefer to go and hear the Tenebrae sung by the nuns of Sainte Claire at Longchamp. In my opinion, gentlemen, Gluck is beyond the pale.’

Taking advantage of the astonishment into which his energetic outburst had plunged his audience, he grabbed a slice of lamb with one hand while nimbly emptying his glass with the other.

‘My dear Noblecourt,’ said La Borde, ‘please allow me to contradict you. For my part, I consider that even the finest brush would not have been able to render the details of that unforgettable performance. Yes, Monsieur, at last we have something new. Enough of Italian-style vocalising! Enough of the traditional machinery of the genre and all that monotonous recitative!’

‘To be replaced by what? Wrong notes and high-pitched twittering? That’s all I heard from the haute-contre who sang the role of Orpheus.’

‘Monsieur,’ said Louis timidly, ‘may I be so bold as to ask what an haute-contre is?’

‘I commend you for asking the question. One should never conceal gaps in one’s knowledge. It does you honour, and we will always be happy to instruct you, dear boy. It is knowledge rather than brilliant but empty wit that makes the honest man. Whoever is master of his subject will be attended to and esteemed everywhere. Monsieur de La Borde, who himself writes operas, will answer you: it will permit me to catch my breath.’

‘Your breath, yes, but no more lamb or Saint-Nicolas,’ said Semacgus. ‘The Faculty is strongly opposed to such things.’

Noblecourt assumed a contrite expression, while Nicolas’s cat, Mouchette, put her little head above the table and sniffed the tempting aromas.

‘An haute-contre,’ explained La Borde, ‘is a French tenor, the highest of all male voices, producing high notes from the chest, a powerful, resonant sound. To get back to our discussion, I am surprised to hear you criticise this choice for the role of Orpheus. It was a bow to the French habits which you love. To be replaced by what? you asked.’

‘Yes, by what? I stand my ground.’

‘Even with your gout,’ sighed Semacgus.

‘By a natural way of singing,’ resumed La Borde, ‘always guided by the truest, most sensitive expression, with the most gratifying melodies, an unparalleled variety in the turns and the greatest effects of harmony, employed equally for drama, pathos and grace. In a word, true tragedy in music, in the tradition of Euripides and Racine. In Gluck, I recognise a man of genius and taste, in whom nothing is weak or slapdash.’

‘Listening to both of you,’ remarked Semacgus, ‘I seem to recognise the same kind of discussion that so often arouses our host on the subject of new habits in cooking.’

‘How right you are,’ said La Borde. ‘Except that our friend supports the natural and the true in cooking, while defending the artificial and the shallow in music.’

‘I’m not admitting defeat,’ said Noblecourt. ‘I don’t need to justify my contradictions. I certainly maintain that meat should be meat and taste like meat, but in art I’m delighted by fantasy. A well-organised fantasy that makes us dream.’

‘But the depth of the new style,’ said La Borde, ‘stimulates our imagination by combining the emotion of tragedy with the pleasure and delight of melody.’

‘I see nothing in it but faults and pretence. A kind of deceptive mishmash of meat and fish.’

‘You are talking just like the directors of our Royal Academy of Music, who ignore foreign art for fear it will bring down theirs.’

‘Peace, gentlemen,’ growled Semacgus. ‘I’m sure you’re both right, but you seem to take a perverse pleasure in forcing your arguments, with even more bad faith than the Président de Saujac.’

‘Oh,’ said Noblecourt, laughing, ‘that’s the whole pleasure of the thing. To maintain the unmaintainable, push your reasoning beyond the reasonable and put forward exaggerated arguments – all that is part of the joy of the debate.’

‘You admit it, then?’

‘I admit nothing. All I’m saying is that we should increase the controversy and put some bite into our presentation. The alternative would be like defending a dull thesis to the academics of the Sorbonne.’

Marion approached Louis, who was starting to doze off, and gave him a bag of fresh hazelnuts from a tree in the garden. Nicolas noticed his son’s tiredness.

‘My friends,’ he said, consulting his repeater watch, which sounded softly, ‘I think it’s time to bring this memorable evening to an end. Our host needs to rest after this royal feast and his excesses.’

‘So early?’ said Noblecourt. ‘Do you really want to interrupt this delightful interlude?’

‘Tomorrow has already sounded, and Louis’s mother is waiting for him. He is leaving for Juilly at dawn on the first mail coach.’

‘Before he leaves us, I want to give him a gift,’ said the procurator.

Monsieur de Noblecourt undid the second package, took out two small leather-bound volumes bearing his arms, and opened one with infinite care. Everyone present smiled, knowing his fanatical devotion to his books.

‘Here,’ he said with blissful solemnity, ‘are Ovid’sMetamorphoses, translated by Abbé Banier, of the Royal Academy of Inscriptions and Belles-lettres. These fine works are decorated with frontispieces and illustrations. My dear Louis, I offer them to you with all my heart …’ He added in a lower voice, as if to himself, ‘The only gifts that matter are those from which one parts with sorrow and regret.’ Then, raising his voice again, ‘May these fables, with their gods made flesh, stimulate your imagination and instil in you a love of literature.

All is enchantment, each thing has its place,

With a body, a soul, a mind and a face. 6

May reading them persuade you that what is elegant in Latin is not necessarily so in French, that each language has a tone, an order and a genius peculiar to it. Whenever you need to translate, remember to be simple, clear and correct, in order to render the author’s ideas precisely, omitting nothing of the delicacy and elegance of his style. Everything should hold together, in fact. Just as, in life, one becomes hard and heartless by being too attached to the letter of a principle, so in translation, the tone can become dry and arid as soon as one tries to impose one’s own ideas in place of the author’s.’

‘Monsieur,’ said Louis, now completely awake again, ‘I don’t know what to say. I certainly wouldn’t like to deprive you of a treasure to which I know you are attached. My father has told me all about your great love of the books in your library.’

‘Not at all, it is a pleasure for me to offer them to you! Don’t worry, I still have Monsieur Burman’s large folio edition, published by Westeins and Smith in 1732, with splendid intaglio figures …’

‘Many thanks, Monsieur. These books will be dear to me, knowing they come from you.’

While the former procurator looked on approvingly, Louis opened one of the volumes and leafed through it carefully and respectfully.

‘Monsieur, what are these handwritten pages?’

He held out a piece of almond-green paper covered in small, densely packed handwriting.

‘Quite simply, translations made by yours truly of the Latin quotations in the preface. You will be able to check their accuracy.’

‘Louis,’ said Nicolas, ‘it is a true viaticum our friend is giving you. Follow his counsel. I have always benefited from it. He was my master when I first arrived in Paris, when I was only a little older than you are now.’

They all rose from the table. The farewells took a while longer. Semacgus, who was returning to Vaugirard, would give Louis a lift and drop him at his mother’s in Rue du Bac. Nicolas made his final recommendations to his son. He was particularly insistent that the boy write him a letter, however short, every week. He opened his arms and Louis threw himself into them. Moved, Nicolas had the curious feeling that he was reliving a distant past, as if the Marquis de Ranreuil had reappeared in the person of his grandson.

The guests having dispersed, he went back to his quarters, overcome with a quiet melancholy. Life often had tricks up its sleeve, chance ruled, and fate often struck repeated blows. But this time it was different: his continuing disgrace was of little importance compared with an ambiguous destiny that offered him compensations which restored the balance. The discovery of Louis constituted the most important of these unexpected favours for which he had Providence to thank.